


Black as Night

by NovelistAngel23



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Femme Fatale, M/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 02:32:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5810155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovelistAngel23/pseuds/NovelistAngel23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspector Kirschtein was a dogged man. Around this city, people said he'd always catch the criminal he was after. But even he knew when he'd lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black as Night

Jean should have known, from the moment he’d walked into his office, that Marco would be there waiting for him. But Marco always did have a habit of being one step ahead of him.

He smiled at him, red rouge decorating pretty lips and a smile that could melt the heart of any man.

Any man other than Inspector Jean Kirschtein, of course. Or that was what he would tell himself later, once he’d scooped up the melted mess of his heart from the floor again.

Marco sat in Jean’s desk chair, leaning back as if he belonged there, and maybe he did. Jean hadn’t the will to deny him if he claimed to. His long, long legs rested casually on the desk as he regarded Jean. “You sure are later than usual, Inspector,” he gasped, bright eyes wide and teasing. “Did the big boss man keep you over time?”

Jean had already closed the door behind him, and he moved over to draw the curtains, concealing he and Marco from any prying eyes. Marco didn’t seem to care, sliding his legs off the desk with a grace that made Jean grimace. How he could move like he didn’t care, like he was nothing more than the perfect gentleman? Oh, Jean knew better than that now.

“What’s a pretty boy like you doing around here, Marco?” he asked, walking towards the desk as he tugged to loosen his tie.

Marco rolled his shoulders, watching Jean’s hands work with a smoky gaze. “Came to see you of course, Inspector.”

Jean snorted and slammed his hands on the table. Marco didn’t even jump, his composure kept with a practiced sort of skill. He merely twisted his lips in amusement and looked up at Jean beneath thick, dark lashes. His hands crept onto the table as well. “A likely story, Bodt,” Jean hissed, distaste evident in his voice.

Marco chuckled, a dark little sound that gave away the true nature of his visit. He pouted, but his eyes sparkled with too much mirth to be anything but guilty. “Can’t I just come to visit sometimes, Jean?”

Jean sneered and leaned back from the table. “You’re here to tease me, aren’t you?”

Marco leaned his elbows on the table, cupping his chin in his hands and still flashing Jean that innocent gaze. Once upon a time, maybe Jean had been weak to it. Fallen for it as if it were fool’s gold. “Oh, I could, if you’d let me.” He crossed his legs, smirking a little when he saw Jean’s eyes flicker to follow the movement. “Tease and delight.”

Jean merely leaned his hip against the desk, looking at the papers scattered on his desk. Clearly Marco had been looking through them, probably searching for his very own case file. He looked at Marco again, as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and a lighter from the other. “Who let you in anyway?” he asked as he bit on the end of his cigarette and worked to light it.

Marco reclined back in his seat again. “Sasha. You need a new secretary; she’s far too trusting for the secretary of a detective.”

Jean looked at the door. No one was in the office at this hour of the night, the curtains having only been a precaution. Just outside his door, Sasha usually worked at her desk, taking calls, filling out papers. He wondered if this was worth firing her over. He knew Marco would have found his way in whether Sasha had let him in or not.

He lit the cigarette and took a long drag. “Tête Noir,” Jean sighed, his words smoky and hazing the world before him.

Marco hummed, answering to his alias so easily, not missing a beat. It was clear he was used to hearing the name--from the cat that ate the cream expression on his face, he probably enjoyed it, the little criminal. Enjoyed the infamy of it.

Jean turned his head to him and looked at him incredulously. “Shouldn’t you be off stealing a painting?”

Marco had to smile at that, rising to his feet, his body fluid and easy like that of a cat. Jean knew better than to watch him move, turning his head instead. Marco once knew how to play him like a fiddle, but after so long chasing the infamous art thief, he knew his little game and refused to play. “You know Jean, a game is no fun if only one person is playing,” Marco sighed as if reading his mind, and Jean could almost hear the pout, almost see those pretty, rouge-stained lips shining along with his big brown eyes.

“Find someone else to play,” Jean sighed, taking another long drag of his smoke. He could feel the burn fill his lungs and let out his ashes in one exhale. “I’m through.”

He felt Marco’s hands find their way to his shoulders, imagined Marco in those elegant clothes on his knees on his desk, and he had to close his eyes to shake the thought. “Oh, Inspector Kirschtein,” he murmured, “But you’re my favorite playmate.”

Jean snorted, turning his head to blow smoke in Marco’s face. The man didn’t let out a single cough, hardly even blinked. He was used to the smoky atmosphere of a bar, singing on a piano with the jazzy sounds of a band behind him. A real classy guy, he was. Only the best bars, only the best clothes, only the best drinks and the best men to enjoy the company of. “You’re full of shit, Bodt,” Jean murmured, meeting Marco’s eyes.

Marco’s lips twitched almost imperceptibly in distaste. His face was almost flawless--probably would’ve been if he weren’t so easy to read these days for Jean. If he hadn’t seen that face a million times. Long since, he’d learned not to take a thing Marco said seriously, to look for the changes in his expression. If Jean couldn’t have a poker face, then neither could Marco.

“Oh, Jean,” Marco murmured, wrapping his arms more fully around Jean’s neck, rubbing them against his rising and falling chest, his beating heart. “I’m made of diamonds and gold, don’t you know?”

“What does that make me, then, Marco?” Jean chuckled.

Marco quickly stole the smoke from Jean’s lips and placed it between his own. He took a nice little drag from it and then pulled it away long enough to blow a stream into Jean’s face in turn. “A coward,” he snapped.

With that he smashed the cigarette against the table and hopped off and away from Jean. “Don’t think I haven’t heard, Inspector,” he snapped, his voice twisted now with something Jean could only imagine was disappointment. “You’ve asked to be taken off my case!”

Jean raised his eyebrows at Marco in question. “I’d have thought this was what you wanted, Tête.”

Marco huffed, going to stand by the windows that faced out at the city. He opened the curtains so they could both look outside and then leaned his shoulder against the glass. The sky outside was hazy with smog, only the barest few stars visible, but still Jean wouldn’t have been surprised to see them reflected in Marco’s beautiful eyes.

He knew he should stop thinking of Marco as beautiful, but old habits died hard.

“You haven’t a right to call me Tête if you’ll drop my case so easily,” Marco muttered. He snapped his fingers. “Give me another smoke, if you know what’s good for you.”

Jean rolled his eyes. “Your stolen money has spoiled you,” he laughed. “Get your own smoke.”

Marco sighed so deeply that Jean almost--almost--felt bad for him and his pathetic melancholy. “I thought you enjoyed our little game as much as I did. I suppose I really was the fool.”

Jean watched the tense line of Marco’s shoulders. So slim but not quite petite. They had the look of shoulders that carried heavy burdens on them, and Jean thought of the times he had met Marco’s sultry gaze--of the shadows he’d seen deep beneath the glow of golden brown.

Oftentimes he told himself any true emotion on Marco’s face was little more than a trick of the light. How could a criminal like this little thing be anything but cheeky and playful? Not a bone of sincerity in him.

But he was standing in his office for a reason, wasn’t he? It seemed like years ago that first fateful evening the man sat before his desk, jeweled eyes sparkling with tears, plump lips in a pout. “Oh, I don’t know what happened officer!” he’d cried, so genuine. “One minute the painting was there, the next it was gone!”

A bitter part of Jean wondered how much the little thief had sold it for.

“Jean,” Marco murmured, his voice soft. It carried that soulful, smooth lilt Jean had heard from him in those hazy bars. “You’re better than this…”

Jean held back the urge to snort incredulously. He walked up behind Marco, almost expecting him to dance away. But Jean’s hands pressed to the glass on either side of him, his palms and long fingers making prints--cold glass and warm skin creating the barest hint of steam. Marco merely turned in his arms and leaned his dark hair back against the window as well, looking down his round nose at Jean.

“Better than what, Tête?” Jean asked, using his alias not without a hint of sarcasm. “You?”

Marco’s smile was sly. Jean almost expected him to duck under his arm, braced himself to catch him should he try to escape his arms this time. But Marco always was one step ahead of him. Instead of making a movement to run, he lifted nimble fingers to deftly undo Jean’s tie, one motion at a time.

“Don’t be silly. I’m the best there is, Inspector.” He undid the tie and began to retie it, tighter than it had been before Jean loosened it. “The Jean Kirschtein I know isn’t a coward. He doesn’t quit because the job frustrates him… He hits the books, works his people, does what needs to be done…”

Marco abandoned the tie to slide his hands down Jean’s chest, feel his heartbeat through his clothes. Jean was overcome with the urge to duck down and kiss those full, parted lips suddenly, as Marco’s hands slipped around his waist, down the curve of his spine, into the pockets of his pants. He squeezed what he found there and pressed his chest against Jean’s, his lips almost brushing his but not quite.

“He’s no quitter,” Marco whispered and then laughed mischievously.

That was all the warning Jean got before Marco ducked out from between his arms and sashayed towards Jean’s jacket, hung on a coat rack with nothing else hanging beside it. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket and shook them. There was a little rustling clatter of a few left inside. “You wouldn’t know where he’s gone, would you, Inspector?” Marco asked. There was a edge to his playful voice that belied his bitterness. “Perhaps smoked himself into an early grave?”

Jean sighed heavily. “I’m too old for your games now, Marco.”

Marco set the box down with a snap. “You chose this life, didn’t you, Jean?”

What could he reply with? Yes, he had. He’d always wanted it. To be the hero. The one that got all the women. The one with the money and the glory and the fame. To kick back and relax once all was said and done...

He had never planned for Marco.

The man turned to look at him, his eyes intense with his question, and Jean couldn’t lie.

He turned back to the window. The world outside was one of smoke. And shadows--like Marco himself. He’d chosen his life. Chosen this city. Chosen the hardships and the weak moments. “Yes,” he murmured.

Marco smiled--Jean could see his reflection in the window. “You’re lucky, Jean. Not all of us get to choose our path.”

Jean studied his expression in his reflection. His smile unwavered. Jean wanted to see it tremble with sincerity. “You speak from experience,” he observed.

The corners of his lips dropped almost immediately. It was a good enough victory in Jean’s opinion. “What can we speak from but experience?” he asked.

There was silence between them. Again Jean wondered about the hardness to Marco’s shoulders, the darkness in his eyes. He wondered about the lack of sincerity. He wondered what his goal was, standing in his office so pretty and unobtainable. Wondered if there were paths Marco had taken unwilling.

“Why are you here, Marco?” Jean asked, not daring to turn now--not bothering.

Marco sighed. “I’d hoped I would be able to convince you not to give up the chase… But I know when I’ve lost…”

Jean leaned back, his hands still on the glass. His palms were beginning to go as cold as the night on the other side. “You’re not the kind to give up so easily, Tête Noir…” Jean sighed.

“Maybe. But neither were you, once.”

If Marco’s words cut deep, Jean wouldn’t let it show. Wouldn’t admit a moment of the emotion in his gut. I’m not a criminal like you, he might have snapped once. You and I are nothing alike, he might’ve laughed.

Now he just took the words and swallowed them with a deep breath.

There was a clatter on the desk. Jean turned to look over his shoulder. His handcuffs sat in a little lump on the center of his paper-covered desk. He realized suddenly that even if he’d tried to arrest Marco, he wouldn’t have been able to without his cuffs on his person.

His eyes shot over to Marco as he made his way to the door. His hips swayed enticingly with each step, a practiced skill, Jean knew. “I’ll see you in the headlines, Inspector Kirschtein,” Marco said over his shoulder. The door shut behind him, and Jean let him go without a word.

It wasn’t until after he was long gone that Jean finally moved away from the window. He sat heavily down in his chair, feeling as if the weight of the world on his shoulders was slowly pressing him into the ground.

But he hissed in pain when something dug into his ass unexpectedly. He jumped from his seat, cursing Marco, sure it must have been his doing. He searched his seat and, finding nothing there, reached into his back pocket, remembering Marco’s teasing hands there. His lips twisted in distaste.

There was something in his pocket.

Hurriedly he pulled it out, his eyes wide with confusion as he studied the page. It was a phone number, and that was all. No title or name to go with it. Just Marco’s elegant handwriting crumpled into a page stolen from a notepad. Jean squinted suspiciously at the swirled numbers and then at the phone sitting dutifully on his desk.

He wasn’t sure why he called. What possessed him. Perhaps it was the ill-held together wound Marco’s soft voice had inflicted in him, metaphorical blood on his fingers as he spun the little circle of his telephone, one careful number after another. Soon, he sat waiting as the woman on the other end of the line picked up, her voice chipper even so late at night. “Hello, this is The Art of This Century gallery, how may I help you?”

Jean took a long, deep breath, looking at the door through which Marco had left. Surely he now walked the cold city, another shadow between the alleys. He was just out of reach once again. Smoke through Jean’s work-roughened fingers.

But he’d left this phone number for a reason. Maybe it was a challenge. Another part of a game. Maybe it was an invitation for another rendezvous.

“Hello?” the woman’s voice questioned.

Jean closed his eyes. Maybe it was a question. A cooing, coaxing voice from the darkness.

He opened his eyes and reached for his notepad. “Ma’am, I’m going to need the address of your gallery.”

“Oh, certainly sir!”

As Jean wrote, he had a sly smile on his face. He never was a quitter.

**Author's Note:**

> FOR MY BAE, I hope you like it!! I know how much you love the idea of Femme Fatale Marco, so I really wanted to write it for you!
> 
> I'm so nervous that this doesn't feel enough like a noir, but one of my closest friends assured me it felt right, so HERE'S HOPING. I honestly do like some of the imagery in this, at least.
> 
> (Also, title of the fic came from this incredible song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kmc1XN3iVVc )


End file.
